


Transit Umbra, Lux Permanet

by Opium_du_Peuple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: As always a bit too much of religious symbolism, Barricade Heaven, Canon Era, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, in which they're dead but the sad but not too sad kind of dead, it IS heaven after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:33:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opium_du_Peuple/pseuds/Opium_du_Peuple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As les Amis are reunited in Heaven, one of them is missing. Quick to notice the lack of Enjolras among them, Grantaire goes to find him. Words are exchanged and hands meet once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transit Umbra, Lux Permanet

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what overcome more, the idea just popped in my head and two hours later here I am. It's a little thing but hey, it's kind of cute and it take the pain away from this whole barricade death business, so why not?  
> The title means **"Shadow passes, light remains."** , which I thought was fitting with the "even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise" line, so here you go :3
> 
> Have a good time!

Heaven was nothing Grantaire had pictured. Actually, heaven wasn't something Grantaire had pictured at all, or rather, not in a really long time. And not for himself. The Perly Gates had a strange Parisian atmosphere, the same air of effrontery, its scent. At least he wouldn't be lost. Mastering the City of Light's geography had taken him long enough for him to be robbed of his knowledge in the afterlife.

Though the hearts were heavy of their defeat, they were thankful to see each other again. Grantaire had held Joly tight in his arms when he had recognised him. To think he hadn't said goodbye. To think he had left the Earth without a warm embrace from his friends. How selfish of me, he thought. The only thing I could bring them was friendship, and I did not deliver. Bossuet had given him a warm pat on the back and a generous kiss on the forehead. The man had never held grudges when he was alive, why start now? Grantaire had lodge his fist against Bahorel's shoulder in a brazen greeting. He had been among the first to get here, Grantaire had been told.

"Did the Master of the House give you some inebriant, for your trouble?" he had asked with an amused smile.

"I'm afraid the only spirit I'm gorging on is that of the Revolution, my friend," Bahorel had replied, hitting his chest with the palm of his hand.

"Thirsty work," Grantaire had snickered.

He had secretly admired him, in that instant, to still believe even though nothing tied him to his ideals anymore. He supposed it was the very nature of ideals, to be unreachable, yet unshakable. Grantaire thought about his own beliefs.  
Grantaire thought about Enjolras.

The leader, always first in line, was nowhere to be found. Grantaire asked Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but they were as clueless as he was. His steps guided him further, off to explore this Paris that wasn't Paris, and yet looked like it in every way. He passed the market place he would cross every time he'd go to the Musain. Used to. Used to cross. It was all confused in his head. What day was it? Was there even days in heaven?

Grantaire kept on walking. He didn't have to think anymore, he knew where he would find him. The cobbles didn't hurt his feet as he walked. That was new. Was he void of all sensations now? He turned at the corner of yet another narrow street and he saw it. He was him.

The barricade still stood in the middle of the street, twenty feet high, just like Enjolras had wanted it. Sat on a broken piano, the commander was looking at his feet. He didn't seem to hear Grantaire as he approached and sat next to him. Grantaire chose his words carefully :

"Your men are looking for you," he said softly.

Enjolras sighed, rubbing his face in his hand.

"They are not my men, they are men of their own right."

A faint chuckle escaped Grantaire's throat. Of course it was something he would say. Heaven was incredibly silent, he noticed. The realisation sent a slight pang to his heart. He liked the brouhaha of the crowd, the biting laughter of the Parisian swarm.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras said, breaking the silence. He had straightened his back and was now looking at Grantaire, meeting his confused gaze. "You believed in me and I have failed you," he added.

The words had the weight of a confession. Maybe it was a little late for that, considering where they were, but Grantaire waved the apology away with his hand. The same hand Enjolras had held. Suddenly aware of it, he rested it against the frame of the piano, next to another hand which he had met in a glimpse, in another life.

"I still believe in you. I told you already. Twice."

"And I didn't believe you. I didn't believe in you."

Grantaire exhaled with a smile. Now this was a conversation he had never thought he'd had.

"I wouldn't have believe in myself either."

Shy fingertips went to meet his own and Grantaire froze, only to soften a second later. He wasn't void of all sensations after all. The tickles in his hand were very lifelike. The irony.

"Did you mean it? That you were one of us?" Enjolras asked, his gaze so intense that Grantaire could barely hold it.

"Constantine was baptised on his deathbed, wasn't he? I figured that, maybe, it wasn't too late for me either."

It had been a different profession of faith altogether. Not to a God. Not to an ideal. Or maybe a little bit of both. Ideals, Grantaire thought. They ghost over your hand and slip between your fingers. Except Enjolras' hand was still on his, warm and very real.

"I do," Enjolras declared out blue.

Grantaire blinked, wondering if his had missed a part of the conversation. Enjolras' hand slithered its way under his own and intertwined their fingers together.

"I do," he repeated. "I permit it."

His thumb brush over Grantaire's. The touch freed a hundred butterflies out of their chrysalis, in the man's stomach. For a second, he thought of the bullet that had pierced his abdomen, but he brushed the memory aside. A genuinely cheerful smile bloomed on Grantaire's lips. Heaven really was what it was said to be.

"Come," Grantaire said, getting on his feet, getting Enjolras' up along with him. "Angels never ought to be alone in heaven."

"I'm not alone," Enjolras smiled tentatively, squeezing their hands tighter.

Sometimes you reach towards your ideals. Sometimes your ideal reaches towards you. And sometimes you meet halfway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was going to call this little ficlet thingy "Angels Never Ought to be Alone in Heaven" but then I was like naaaah I'm going to go all Latin on my own ass!
> 
> By all means please leave a kudo and a comment if you liked it, it's heart warming and would make my day :3 You can also find me at [just-french-me-up](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com) if you want more dead french revolutionaries ;)


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